


We Will Survive

by Shea



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shea/pseuds/Shea
Summary: Alistair has anxieties about the impending doom tomorrow brings. And love.





	We Will Survive

**Author's Note:**

> Just kind of a fluff/angst thing I kind of needed? But enjoy the Alistair/Zevran because they don't have enough and they deserve it-
> 
> Italicized implies thoughts or a flashback.

Alistair is used to quiet nights. Although the feeling of being indoors in a warm bed is a welcomed old friend. He likes traveling and camping as much as the next person, but an entire year of sleeping on the hard, cold ground was enough to make him never want to camp _again._ And yet, right now, he almost missed it.

Not the sleeping on the cold ground part. Or the having to repair soggy tents and ruined meals bit. No, he missed the closeness of it. It felt like he and Theron and the rest of their acquired companions were… well, almost like family. Even Morrigan. She was the annoying, bitchy sister. Leliana the slightly less-annoying sister, with her questions of “crushes” and fashion.Wynne was the kindly grandmother. Oghren the drunk uncle. Jax, the mabari, was… well… the dog. He wasn’t sure what Sten was. The father maybe? Theron was like the protective older brother. And then there was Zevran…

Zevran wasn’t a part of the family. Not because he didn’t fit in. He fit in quite well with all their craziness. No, it was because if Alistair thought of him as family that’d be weird, to say the least. Long story short? He liked him. Yeah, _liked_ liked him. Has he told him? No. Will he? Well, that’s his current predicament.

Tomorrow would be the day everything went down. The Blight. The fight with the archdemon. Either he and Theron save the day…or they fail and Fereldan falls to the darkspawn. He had this… feeling from the beginning that he wouldn’t make it to see the true end. And if not him, then Theron. And Riordan’s bit of “advice” certainly didn’t help.

At least there’s that suggestion made by Morrigan, which Theron was _no_ problem going through with. He’d told Alistair about it, to try and set his nerves at ease. It hasn’t helped. He’s not sure if it would _actually_ work, or if they could even trust Morrigan. Not that Theron would listen to him; he trusts her and that’s that.

 _At least it wasn’t me._ Alistair thinks, and then with a depressing sigh; _at least_ he’s _getting laid._

See, he’s known about how he’s felt for Zevran for several months. Somewhere between watching his every move to make sure he doesn’t poison anyone, to the sarcastic teasing, to the choosing each other to share a tent with. And, okay, yes. He’s attractive. Alistair could admit that much from day one. But this wasn’t it. And it wasn’t just a _sexual_ desire- although that wasn’t entirely unwelcomed either.

No, Alistair is in love with the elf. With the _assassin_ elf, at that. That’s established, yes. Theron, Alistair’s closest and most trusted friend, knows this as well, for weeks now, and has urged him to tell him so from the beginning. But, if this wasn’t discovered beforehand, Alistair is a coward. At least, he thinks so.

So now, to sum up, tomorrow is the end of the world, or possibly the _saving_ of it, and Alistair _should_ tell him before he probably dies. _But what if he doesn’t feel the same way? Or, what if he gets angry. Especially if you_ do _die. Would this only_ hurt _him?_ He frets mentally. Judging from the quietness of the estate, most people are probably asleep. But he knows Zevran. The elf would probably be up for a few more hours, polishing his blades or creating more poison… or, with some servant…

“Oh, Maker…” Alistair mutters, holding his head in his hands.

****

Across the hall, in his own room, Zevran is still very much awake. Only doing none of what Alistair might assume. His armor is thrown across the floor, leaving him in a simple pair of trousers and a shirt. In truth, he tried to fall asleep hours ago. But, well, if anyone didn’t have any anxieties about tomorrow, they were either crazy or lying. Although it wasn’t his own safety he was concerned for. Theron was a concern, yes, as his savior from the Crows, not to mention his friend. But he’s concerned more for Alistair. The poor boy was probably worrying up a storm. And Zevran knew he _expected_ to die tomorrow. Surely, that would give anyone uneasiness and anxiety. Which perfectly sums up Alistair on a good day. Well, minus the ruggedly handsome good looks, and witty, sarcastic mouth that Zevran had imagined several better uses for.

It wasn’t uncommon these days for the ex-Templar to be taking up his thoughts, although this night was worse than most. He fears he knows _why_ , but of course he’ll keep quiet about it. No need to add onto the man’s stress, yes?

However, if he could _relieve_ it any way….

With that thought in mind, Zevran stealthily left his room and padded across the hall to Alistair’s. He debated with himself for a moment over whether to knock or simply walk in, and considered the former be the better approach. So he did.

There was a light crash, heavy footfalls, and a muttered curse before the door swung open. Alistair was in a similar state as himself, armor gone, only he didn’t wear a shirt. Which Zevran didn’t complain about. He practically drank up the sight before him, a carefree grin naturally making its way on his face, before he looked at him in the eye. “I figured you might wish to relax some.” He says, holding up a bottle of wine he managed to grab before leaving.

Alistair blinks at him, then the drink in his hand, then back at him. “Oh! Oh, um… y-yes, yeah. I… I’d like that. Very much.”

Zevran’s grin widens a little as he gestured past the door. “I think it would be more enjoyable if we were in the same room, yes?”

“Oh, right. Yes, um… Come inside, please.”

Alistair moves aside to let Zevran come inside, which he does. His room is a mess, Zevran notices first, and assumes the crash he heard earlier was Alistair stumbling over his own breastplate on the floor. He chuckled softly and nudges one of the vanbraces aside with his foot. “Still a mess, are we?”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know the half of it.” Alistair replies, sitting on the edge of his bed. “The Chantry used to yell at me all the time. I never learned.” He smiles wistfully at the memory before a certain sadness clouds in his eyes.

Zevran nods sympathetically, finding two glasses and taking a seat beside him. “The only thing the Chantry knows how to do right is strike fear in the weaker believers.”

Alistair snorts and takes a glass when offered. “That’s very true.”

Zevran just nods and fills their glass with the dark red liquid before setting the bottle aside. “Well, to our victory tomorrow, yes?” He raises his glass slightly for him.

Alistair’s mood seems to drop a little once he’s reminded, though he repeats the gesture and takes a long sip. Zevran takes a little drink, amber eyes studying the human before him. “You’re worried, yes? About succeeding or failing tomorrow?”

Alistair shrugs a little, finding an interest in his feet. “Amongst other things.”

“You wish to rant? I am a very good listener.” Zevran offers.

“I… you don’t want to hear the things I have to say.” He mumbles, and Zevran squints a little when his cheeks begin to turn a slight shade of pink.

“No? You are my friend, are you not? If it will help ease your anxiety, and at least help you get to sleep, I wouldn’t mind listening to your rant on all the different kinds of cheeses.”

Alistair chuckles softly, pauses, and then takes another long drink. “It’s just… the entire fate of Fereldan rests on my and Theron’s shoulders. And, giant horde of darkspawn aside, there’s an _archdemon_ to defeat.”

Zevran nods slowly. “This is true. But, you know you two are not alone. There are the rest of our companions, myself included. And I have become _quite_ skilled and defeating darkspawn.”

Alistair chuckles again. “That you have.” He agrees, and then sighs. “Still, it’s a lot. A lot… A lot of people are going to die tomorrow.” _Including myself,_ he doesn’t include but it’s there. He gets up from the bed before Zevran can respond, setting his glass on the desk and running his hands through his hair. “This entire year I’ve been… focused on avenging Duncan, and making sure Loghain gets what he deserves. Well, that much has been accomplished. I almost… I… I underestimated the Blight. And now- _now_ I’m going to-“ Again, he doesn’t say it. He _can’t_. And Zevran doesn’t want to hear it anyway. The sound of his voice breaking, like he might start crying, is enough pain.

The elf gets up as well, taking Alistair’s wrists gently and tugging his hands away from his head. “Alistair, you will not die.” Zevran says with such fervor, Alistair is compelled to believe him. “You are a very skilled Templar and Grey Warden. You and Theron, and the rest of our band, we can all stop the Blight.”

Zevran’s not usually such an optimistic person. People die, he knows. People _will_ die tomorrow. Some of their friends might even die. But he can’t let himself believe Alistair would die. If any of them survived… it _had_ to be him.

Alistair’s eyes study him for a moment, and Zevran can see every emotion he feels; sadness, anxiety, anger, and… some kind of fondness. He’s calmed down enough, and they’re silent for a few moments. Zevran doesn’t let go of his wrists.

Alistair continues to stare at him. _Maker, he’s so close._ He thinks. He can smell the poison and different kinds of oils on him. He smells… clean. Probably bathed while he could here. His hair looks so shiny, so soft. He has a strong urge to run his fingers through it. He probably would have had the elf not been holding onto his wrists.

Neither of them notice they’re naturally gravitating toward each other until their face are inches apart and Zevran leans up on his tiptoes to close the distance, pressing his lips against Alistair’s. It’s the first time either of them have showed _any_ kind of sign of interest, but they act like they’ve done it a hundred times. Zevran’s hands slide up his arms and to his hair, Alistair’s hands finding his hips easily.

“Maker…” Alistair mutters when they break apart not even a whole second later. And then the realization sinks in and his face flushes. “I… Did you just…?”

Zevran chuckles softly, his hands not leaving his hair. “Kiss you? Yes, I did. I… hope it was not too far?”

Alistair immediately shakes his head. “No… Maker, no. I’ve… I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Zevran laughs lightly. “I am rather irresistible.”

“No.” Alistair shakes his head, which takes Zevran aback for a moment. “I mean- yes, you _are_ , but that’s not…” Alistair sighs. “I’m so not good at this. Listen, it’s not… I don’t just feel a sexual attraction to you, Zevran. I’m… I think…”

Zevran shakes his head, pressing his fingers against Alistair’s lips. “Don’t say it.” He says softly, his eyes softening a little. “Not until tomorrow, after we survive the battle.”

Alistair hesitates, but he eventually nods. “Okay… After we survive…” He agrees, and then angles his head down again. “Can I…?”

Zevran nods, his arms tightening around him once they kiss again.

****

 

There’s blood everywhere. _So_ much blood. And half the city is on fire. Most of the screaming and the loud hubbub has subsided, though. The only ones that remain are the darkspawn and those strong enough to last this long. Zevran, having stayed in the city, fights off the last few Hurlocks in this block before there’s a loud explosion that shakes the very ground. He glances up at the bright light on top of the tower. That’s where Alistair and Theron were… Only them. They refused to bring anyone else along, which frustrated Zevran to no end.

 _“After all this? After_ everything, _you’re leaving me here?” Zevran demands semi-angrily. “What happened to us as a group?”_

_“I’m sorry, Zevran.” Theron apologizes, a frown on his face. “I can’t risk any of my friends dying up there. Trust me, Morrigan wasn’t any happier.”_

_“I would trust not!” Zevran frowns, though he sighs and regains his casual demeanor. “Allow me to say that is has been a pleasure, my friend. Assassinating you is the luckiest thing that could have happened to me.” As he says this, his eyes flicker over to the other Grey Warden, pretending not to hear them._

_Theron smiles all the same. “Have you talked to him?” He lowers his voice._

_Zevran chuckles lightly. “Well, there wasn’t very much_ talking _per say…”_

_Theron laughs and then, surprising Zevran, hugs him. “Good. If anyone deserves love, it’s you two.”_

_His statement has Zevran about ready to refuse all their wishes, kissing Alistair and then storming the tower with them whether they like it or not. But he refrains, and just smiles again. “Well, best be off before the archdemon destroys the whole world, yes?”_

_Alistair approaches him once Theron goes to talk to Sten and Oghren. “Make sure you survive out there.” He says lamely, making Zevran chuckle softly._

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“I mean it.” Alistair says, and steps just a tad closer than he would any day before yesterday._

_“As do I.” Zevran nods once. “I will live. We will win.”_

_Alistair nods as well, his eyes softening and for the first time in a while, all anxiety and fear is gone. There’s only adoration and affection, for him no less. “Thank you, for everything…”_

_“Don’t make this a goodbye.” Zevran says, idly wiping off a speck of blood off his cheek. “Just kick some ass for me, yes?”_

_Alistair laughs and nods. “Okay.”_

Zevran holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the offending light, his chest lurching painfully. That was the archdemon dying. It _had_ to be. “He’s alive.” He tells himself under his breath as a panicking Ogre turns the corner, running straight for him. “He has to be.” He nods once, and then charges.

****

Alistair and Theron practically lean on each other as they go back to the main city to greet everyone. They’re heavily wounded, but alive. Morrigan’s ritual worked. But Riordan was dead. Many were dead. But for now, they could celebrate.

As they step out to the city center, their comrades are there and let out praises and cheers that the Maker himself must’ve heard. Alistair smiles, before he notices a certain assassin is missing. He glances around, but Zevran is nowhere to be seen. Panic rising up in his chest, he stumbles away from the group.

“Alistair!” There’s a voice that both surprises and relieves him. Emerging from some back alleyway is the missing elf himself. He’s obviously wounded as well, his hair no longer shiny and pretty, his golden skin splattered with blood, and his armor only hanging on by thin straps. But he’s equally the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

Wounds and aches forgotten about, Alistair hobbles while Zevran outright runs to each other. Zevran’s light, but his weight is enough to topple Alistair’s weak frame over, though if it hurt either of them, they don’t show it. Their lips are already interlocked, arms wrapped around each other like their lives depend on it.

“I love you.” Alistair finally says once they part, brushing a part of bloody bangs from Zevran’s face.

“And I you, amor.” Zevran murmurs, his heart hammering at the fresh anxiety of _never having been in love like this before._

But with the archdemon dead, the Blight over, this was one anxiety they both had time to work with, and neither were complaining so long as they had each other.

 


End file.
